“Edith, I could not come to you penniless, and ask you to become my wife. When I found myself a poor man, I had no profession to fly to; I was acquainted with no business. I was a great hulking good-for-nothing, able to plough and reap, and earn a bare crust by the sweat of my brow, and that was all. How was it possible for me to become a dependent on you for my daily bread?” “You would not have been a dependent, Lionel. My money would have been yours, just as my love was yours.” “Still a woman’s view, my dearest,” said Lionel. “The noblest and the best, I at once admit. Only, the world would never have believed that I had not married you for your fortune.” “You and I together, Lionel, could have afforded to set the world’s opinion at defiance.” Lionel ended the argument with a kiss. A fair, sweet English face was that which nestled so lovingly on Lionel’s shoulder. Edith West had large liquid dark brown eyes. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were nearly black, but the thick wavy masses of her hair had no shade deeper than that of chestnuts in autumn. The tints of the wild rose dwelt in her cheeks. About her there was a freshness, a sweetness, and a delicate grace, like that of a breezy morning in spring, when flowers are growing, and birds are singing, and all nature seems glad at heart. “You are in mourning, Lionel,” said Edith, suddenly. “Yes; I have just lost my uncle, Mr. St. George, of Park Newton.” “I never remember to have heard you speak of him.” “Probably not. I never even saw him, never had any communication with him whatever. Nevertheless, it is to him that I owe my fortune.” “It has come to you unexpectedly?” “Entirely so. Three days ago I should have laughed at the idea of being my uncle’s heir: now they tell me that I am worth eleven thousand a year.” “It sounds like a fairy tale,” cried Edith. “What a strange man your uncle must have been!” “When the will was read,” returned Lionel, “my first thought was of you. I said to myself, ‘Has Edith forgotten me? Has she given me up? Am I too late?’ I trembled to think what the answer might be. Now I tremble no longer.” “It is sweet, Lionel, to have you here, and to know that you are my own again,” replied Edith. “But how much sweeter it would have been if you had come to me when you were poor, and had trusted everything to my love!”